


At The Three Feathers

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Celibacy, F/M, M/M, Sherlock is possessive no matter what, aces
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 12:12:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4746053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ok. I've been wanting to move out and do more John and Sherlock stuff. For many reasons, that starts with an attempt to walk a little character study/snapshot story around their sexuality. I'm going to say more at the bottom, but I do want to say going in that I do try to go fairly canonical where Sherlock and John are involved. John is straight, Sherlock is "whatever," with a lot of wiggle room but his own stated opinion of why he is as he chooses to be. </p><p>It is not Johnlock. It's instead John and Sherlock taking a rather unplanned tour around Sherlock's odd combination of celibacy + possessiveness of "his" friends. </p><p>I kind of like it, and it's at least helping me get my head into a John and Sherlock head-space.</p><p>No. Sherlock is NOT being nice to Mycroft and Lestrade in this story. But--again. Read the bottom notes. I do think it's justified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At The Three Feathers

“This is one for Mycroft’s people,” Sherlock said to Lestrade, as they stood over the predictable corpse in the standard filthy alley. “Might as well pull your people now and just phone it on up the line. No doubt he’s already marshalling his own teams.”

Lestrade glowered, and sighed. “Can’t do that until either I’m sure—or he takes it away from us,” he said. “Regulations.”

Sherlock scoffed and made his usual sour face. “Regulations. Pfah. Regulations are for people without brains. Even then, if you have to choose between regulations and me—pick me. I’m less trouble. And you do know—I told you. So call my brother and get it over with.”

“You’re not ‘less trouble,’” Lestrade growled, even as his hand dipped into his overcoat pocket to pull out the mobile. He hit the autodial setting Sherlock knew was set for Anthea’s smart phone. “Andy, it’s Lestrade. Yeah. Got a case your boss is going to—what? Yeah. Ok. I’ll start pulling my people now, then. Thanks, love.” He hung up and sighed.

“Already on their way?”

Lestrade shot him an evil glare, and stomped off to confer with Donovan, gesturing widely to indicate how he wanted his team gathered, and what they were to leave in place for Mycroft’s incoming investigators.

“Poor old Lestrade,” said John, who’d been leaning against the wall nearby, waiting his own chance at the body. “You never know when he’ll get a fun one only to have your brother swipe the candy from the baby.”

“Don’t feel sorry for Lestrade,” Sherlock growled. He squatted by the corpse, still taking in evidence in spite of his knowledge that Mycroft was on the way. If nothing else there would be a certain glory to be gained from solving the case in the time it took the team to assemble. He took out a biro and nudged at the woman’s fingers, frowning. “Huh. That’s a new one…”

“What?”

“Encoded message in the nail enamel,” he said. “It’s the pearlized stuff that changes color depending on angle. Another agent could sit there pretending to play handsy games over the lattes and scones, and all the while be reading the latest on the Borochev gang. I wonder whose idea that was?”

“Some rogue beautician?” John snarked. “Rather silly, if you ask me.”

Sherlock was tempted to point out he hadn’t asked—but on the one hand he was too interested in trying to crack the code, which had to be an easy one if it was intended to be read as he’d imagined, and on the other hand, he and John were slowly reaching a new balance since the marriage and the mess with Magnussen and the birth of the baby. More and more of late he felt like the old version of “Sherlock and John” was reflected in the newer, more streamlined and efficient version they’d developed to deal with reduced time together. He didn’t want to waste his time on bickering when they could be focusing on the case.

“Much of espionage is silly,” he said instead. “Thus my brother’s involvement. It gives him something to fritter away his time that’s big enough to keep even him occupied.”

John laughed outright, then. “I see. Never thought of foreign affairs as just a giant Sudoku square for one of the Holmes boys to play with.”

“More like a Rubic’s Cube,” Sherlock murmured. He cocked his head and lifted dead fingertips, scowling. “Something about transport, I think, but beyond that?” He huffed, and stood, tucking his biro away and dusting his hands on the skirts of his Belstaff, as though removing the dust of the case. “Enough to be sure it’s one for Mycroft, and that it’s to do with some form of smuggling, but,” he scowled more fiercely still, “not enough to assure me of a correct solution before Her Majesty arrives.”

“Her Majesty?” John started upright, already trying to sort his clothing into order for a royal review, when he realized, and combined irked moaning with laughter. “Yeah, yeah, all right. It’s one thing to call him the British Government. Another to mix him up with the Queen, Sherlo0ck. A bit not-good.”

Sherlock sniffed, and watched a convoy of black sedans pulled up, tailed by the grand chauffeured Jaguar that was Mycroft’s most common ride. “Hardly my fault there’s some confusion as to which queen rules the country, John. This entire ‘limited monarchy’ thing makes it so much easier for encroaching mushrooms to spring up in the lower ranks….” He was still and silent as Mycroft climbed from his car.

John chuckled. “Overdressed for a murder investigation.”

“I daresay he’ll keep himself tidy.” It wasn’t a compliment the way Sherlock said it. “He doesn’t like dirt and smells.”

John chuckled again, softly, as much at Sherlock as at his brother. For all his disgust at Mycroft’s alleged priggishness, Sherlock never noticed he was himself a bit of a prig—especially where Mycroft was concerned. The poor man could do no right.

Not that John felt much pity for him. From John’s perspective the British Government was enigmatic, labyrinthine, and emotionally opaque.

Once he would have said Mycroft was emotionally cold, but he’d learned enough over time to recognize that Mycroft had far more heart than he ever showed willingly. That did not change the fact that the prissy, complicated, sardonic persona Mycroft kept between himself and the world was as effective at blocking John’s attempts to see his hidden depths as the sparkling, ripple-webbed, wave-crested surface of a river on a choppy day. John could see the top layer—and just barely deduce the existence of other layers hidden below. More he could not claim.

Still—it was funny when Sherlock reminded him so dramatically that Mycroft was not the only persnickety brother.

“He’s an affront,” Sherlock drawled, and John’s eyes swung to his friend, startled. Sherlock smiled tightly. “He’s lazy, arrogant, isolated, anti-social. He’s only marginally better at social interactions than I am. He’s critical, hypocritical, and hypersensitive to the point of paranoia. He’s cold—he’ll reckon the costs of civilian deaths like a professional gambler reckoning the odds on vignt et un.  He’ll sacrifice his own lover for the sake of ‘Queen and Country.’”

John scowled, thinking. “You say it as though you know it?”

Sherlock sniffed. “Don’t be stupid, John. He’s my brother. The little I don’t know about him by direct witness I can deduce about him through life-long observation. He told you once I would assess him as my archenemy. You’ve never asked about that since we first met.” His eyes met John’s. “I sometimes wonder why. But, then, I remember you’re John—a conductor of light, not the source.” He swiveled away, then, stalking toward Mycroft, who’d met Lestrade in the open street, where the two men stood perhaps two feet apart, poised, alert, focused on each other.

John shook his head, feeling a bit battered by Sherlock’s little lecture-rant. It left him unsure why he was bothered by the two men meeting, or by Sherlock approaching with a gunfighter’s swagger, Belstaff skirts swinging like a duster around his calves. His arms fell in a relaxed line, as though ready to dart for hidden holsters—as though ready to take both older men down.

John was a doctor. He was a soldier. He was a trained sniper—trained enough to have trusted his shot when he’d brought down Jeff Hope, the cabby. He knew a fight brewing when he saw one. He frowned and hurried after his friend, not sure if he would be needed to support Sherlock or pull him off his victims.

He wasn’t even sure it mattered. Where Sherlock went, he’d follow, especially when Sherlock was in that kind of mood.

As he approached, Sherlock had just reached the two men. Mycroft flipped his younger brother a dismissive glance, but kept his attention on Lestrade, who appeared to be giving a report on the status of the case up to that point. John was impressed at Lestrade’s delivery—he was very businesslike in John’s opinion, if also obviously under some stress. But, then, who wouldn’t be, having to hand over a case to a higher authority with no explanation of what was happening? It was all regulation, but John had lived with orders and regulations, and knew it was seldom as easy as you might think to just obey your superiors.

Mycroft was his usual chill self. Gloved hands rested, one over the other, on the handle of his umbrella. His long feet formed a narrow V, reminding John of a former girlfriend who’d been a dancer. He remembered her doing her daily morning routine. That V-shape was one of the basic positions, he knew: first or second, or a plie, or a jette—something or other that John had never bothered to recall any more than she had bothered to recall the orderly drill commands John could do on the parade ground with his eyes shut and too little coffee in his blood system.

Indeed, there was something of the dancer in Mycroft, to John’s eyes. But he found that true of many gay men. He knew that not all gays were dancers, nor all male dancers gay, and yet…

And yet…

Oh, and yet, no matter how he tried not to notice, there were too many whose stride was always neatly placed, seeming to lead with the toe, not the heel. Who seemed to float with their heads up and their hands ready to rise lightly and gracefully to complete an airy gesture.

There was just a hint of that in Mycroft…more, today, somehow, as though he were hovering in the wings awaiting his entrance.

Of course, he was—John felt a bit of a fool for not factoring that in. Mycroft was here waiting to step forward and take center stage away from Lestrade. Of course he was at his most floaty, high-headed best.

“Don’t waste your time, Lestrade,” Sherlock drawled, voice firmly in the “ego-abattoir” setting—ready to slice all pride from Lestrade with a single razor-sharp tone. “He’s only going to have his minions redo your team’s work anyway. He won’t trust you to have got it right.”

“I’ll have my minions redo the work as a matter of professionalism,” Mycroft snapped, already succumbing to his brother’s ill-manners. “It’s hardly a comment on Lestrade’s competence or his team’s.”

“Right, yes. Which is why you’re taking a simple case away from a capable officer.” Sherlock sniffed. “If I’d had more time I’d have resolved it myself before the body was even taken back to the morgue. Something about transportation, yes? Drugs, weapons, information, or humans, Mycroft? Which one are your people playing little God games with now?”

Mycroft’s glance flickered sidewise to Sherlock’s. In John’s professional opinion it was a medical miracle the Great Consulting Detective didn’t fall to the ground writhing from a million poisoned glass darts.

“Brother-mine, you exceed your purview.”

“Oi!” Lestrade snapped. “Both of you cut it out. Just let me make my report, Sherlock. It’s no skin off my nose if His Nibs does it all over again.”

John frowned. There was something in his voice that suggested that, in spite of what he said, Sherlock’s taunt had touched a nerve: Sherlock’s taunt or Mycroft’s prima-ballerina poise, the swan waiting to float into the spotlight….

“If you were hoping to impress him with your diligence and cooperation, you’re wasting your time. He’ll note them down for future use—he’s always got a use for a groveling flunky. But it won’t earn you any respect.”

John, trapped between amusement and sympathy, caught Lestrade’s eye. “Not that it ever does, with Holmeses,” he said, in the sarky voice he’d use among his surgical team, or his platoon. “No sooner kiss Holmes arse than they want you down kissing their boots.” He nudged Sherlock. “Come on, old son—you’re running a bit hot today. Let’s go to the Three Feathers and down a pint and let your brother and Lestrade sort this out on their own.”

Sherlock glowered. “They’ll never sort themselves out,” he said, bitterly. “If Mycroft didn’t insist on longing for what he can’t have…”

Before he could finish, Mycroft twirled his umbrella fast and smooth, so it hit Sherlock across the shins like a switch. “Be silent,” he hissed. John could not have said whether his eyes were ice cold, or hot as incendiary bombs. Either way, Mycroft was in a mood to do damage. “Just because you’re unwilling to admit your own inclinations…”

Stepping back with a hiss of pain, Sherlock cut his brother off. “I have no ‘inclinations.’ My body is transport, nothing more. Certainly not a muddle of hypocritical lusts and sentiments designed to stunt my mental abilities.”

John and Lestrade’s eyes met in horrified panic. Lestrade swept an arm around Mycroft’s shoulders, moving him one way, as John corralled his own Holmes brother and pushed him toward the main road, groping for his own mobile to call a cab. “Hush, Spock,” he managed to get out as he located the phone. “No need to start a fight because your brother’s not sufficiently loyal to the Way of Surak.”

Sherlock snatched the phone out of John’s hands. “No. Just walk me to the Three Feathers. I need a pint.” He scowled, dark and cloudy with fury. “I’d say ‘take me home, I need a shot of seven-percent,’ but you and Mycroft and Molly and Lestrade and Mary would all descend on me and yammer like baboons. I shall have to make do with a pint of bitter.”

John rolled his eyes, but agreed, taking back his moble. “Fine, fine. Just come along.” He chugged along beside Sherlock as the taller man strode fiercely down the pavement toward the pub. “What got into you?”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock grumbled. “How can he avoid seeing my brother’s…feeding---on his every grovel and kowtow?”

“Huh?” John blinked, trying to factor Sherlock’s view into what he himself had just seen. It didn’t fit…not to John’s mind, anyway. “What are you talking about?”

“My brother,” Sherlock snapped. “It’s already bad enough he thinks I’m like…him. He projects too much on my friendship with you. But on top of it he has to go and develop an obsession for poor Lestrade, who doesn’t deserve the grief.”

John felt a bit like he’d been hit upside the head with a twenty pound sack of rice. “Wait—what?”

“He always gets things wrong. Wishful thinking, no doubt. Terrible brew of chemical toxins—lust and love and all that idiocy.” He scoffed. “He’s got himself in deep for the wrong person before, hasn’t he? But this. Showing up at my workplace, pushing in where he’s not wanted, hanging on Lestrade’s reports like a stalker at a window. Pitiful.”

He kept on, firmly declaring his brother a deluded, hypocritical clot, and Lestrade too frightened for his job to realize what was going on. Damning Mycroft for using his status to take over cases just for an excuse to see Lestrade—who was straight AND apparently Sherlock's private possession, assuming he wasn’t working for Mycroft as Sherlock’s minder.

John was terribly glad to get to the Three Feathers and order a pint of his own. By the end of the rant he needed one. He chose a local IPA he’d been meaning to try and hunched into a booth at the back of the place, barely waiting for Sherlock to settle with his own bitter before saying, “Mycroft thinks you’re gay?”

“He always misunderstands me,” Sherlock said, dismissively.

“Leaving aside how hard you work to mix him up, that’s rather the pot calling the kettle black in any case,” John said, and took a long gulp of beer. “What makes him think so?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I can only suspect he finds it comforting to think my preference for male company is sexual.” He thought about it, then snorted. “Well. I suppose in a sense it is, if you recognize the logic in not associating with known threats to your sanity. And Mycroft scolds me for taking drugs, when love and desire turn people into drooling idiots? Incredible. I’ve seen him after a let-down, and it’s not a pretty sight.”

John studied the lean, ascetic face opposite him. There was anger and spite in his voice and his expression—but also, he thought, the pained distress of a boy whose role model had proved to have feet of clay. And, turning Mycroft’s alleged theory over in his mind, he could see sense in it…

“You’re sure you’re not gay?” he asked, in the least charged voice he could manage. He was a doctor and a soldier—he’d dealt with young men discovering unwelcome things about themselves before. “It’s not like it’s a problem, after all. It’s all good.”

Sherlock gave him a truly evil glare. “If I were gay I’d be an idiot to associate with you,” he said, bluntly. “Imagine the agony, John—and when you were rooming with me, how much worse?”

“You could be sublimating.”

“No,” Sherlock said repressively. “I could not. I will not deny my fond feelings for you—but I assure you, they remain unsullied by the rampant chemical stampede of desire or lust or jealousy.”

John nearly spat out his IPA.

“What are you laughing about?” Sherlock was irked. If he’d been a cat his ears would have been back, his whiskers puffed, and his tail lashing.

“Just…you do a good imitation of jealousy,” John managed to gasp. “Wrecked plenty of dates for me that way. And Little Em would have a sister or brother by now if you weren’t a leeeettle bit possessive.”

“I am never!” Sherlock was horrified. “Ridiculous.”

“Yeah, yeah. Ok. So—you’re not so inclined. Mycroft’s just projecting. Why the rage? It’s not like you never project onto him.”

That was another fifteen minutes, then a second trip to the counter for two more pints, and then an extra fifteen minutes more, before Sherlock ran down. John eventually “confessed” to having misspoken, though in truth he was more sure than ever that his friend got his brother wrong regularly based on things poor Mycroft had nothing to do with. His main curiosity was whether Sherlock was right about an attraction to Lestrade.

“Of course he’s attracted. He clings to their stupid, muddled professional association in spite of the fact that it ceased being pragmatic when you showed up. No more need to worry about me, after all.”

John didn’t choke—but he did remember vividly all the times he and Lestrade together had been insufficient to protect Sherlock from his worst instincts. Poor Mycroft…

“They’re neither of them quick to change,” he pointed out. “And today—come on. Even you thought it was a case for your brother’s team, not for Greg’s.”

Sherlock stopped, temporarily thrown off his stride. “You’re sure his name is Greg?”

“If it’s not, it’s still the one he goes under,” John said. “Given the people I hang around with these days, a cover name is all I expect to get.”

Sherlock was scornful. “I am not a member of the civil service or the various espionage agencies."

“No, you’re just their consultant,” John snipped back. “Come off it, Sherlock. Stop dodging the issue: the case wasn’t Lestrade’s from the start. He was going to have to hand it over anyway.”

Sherlock grumbled into his bitter, but then said, dramatically, “Oh, very well. Point taken. But that didn’t mean Mycroft had to come down. He doesn’t do leg work, John. He’s too lazy to come down to the streets and alleys when he can insist on his minions doing it for him.”

“It could be manners.”

“Mycroft? Manners? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I may be wrong, but it does look like manners are at least part of what got your brother where he is, instead of having to get by as a consultant."

Sherlock tossed his head. “Mine is the greater calling. I created the role myself.”

John decided to go with manners himself, and not point out that Sherlock had created his consultancy years after Mycroft had brokered a similar role for himself within government. Tact was a survival skill when touchy Holmes egos were involved.

“Yeah, ok. But—Sherlock, Lestrade and Mycroft are big grown up lads, the two of them. Even if you’ve got Mycroft dead to rights, and Lestrade too, they don’t need you going all stroppy when the work makes it possible for Mycroft to do a little no-blame stalking, all right? Worst that happens is that Lestrade feels a bit under the gun for a half-hour or so, and it’s over.”

“Lestrade is not gay,” Sherlock said, darkly.

“And you know this how? It’s not like it’s visible, Sherlock.”

“Of course he’s not gay. He was married. He had a child. Even at his age he’s the chap all the women hang on.”

John just looked at Sherlock…a long, disbelieving look.

“Very well,” Sherlock snapped. “I concede women’s taste is an unreliable barometer where sexual orientation is involved. Still…”

“Look, it doesn’t matter,” John said. “What matters is that whatever is going on, it’s not helped by having you go stropping through it in a huff.”

Sherlock glowered. “Why couldn’t he find someone I’m not associated with?”

“Desire increases in direct relation to access,” John said. “It’s amazing how few people fall in love with total strangers they never meet—and shut up about online, that’s just another way of meeting people, all right?”

Sherlock slumped into the bench of the booth and moped….lower lip out and everything. “It’s intrusive,” he said.

“You just don’t like thinking any of your friends might have sex lives. You even try to imagine Mary and I live chaste and untouched…all evidence to the contrary.” John couldn’t help laughing by then. Sherlock seemed determined to believe little Em had been conceived by divine intervention of some sort.

“It would be much the better if you all avoided your stupid emotional addictions.”

“Mmmmm—which are more easily integrated into our lives than, say…a seven-percent solution?” John hit that one good and hard, figuring it was worth some energy whether applied to love or cocaine. “Look, leave it, yeah? We can head back, make sure Mycroft’s team has things in hand, check to see if Lestrade needs anything, then call Mary about bringing back some take-out, all right?”

“All right,” Sherlock finally agreed.

The walk was brief, and at least Sherlock had come down from his high and mighty strop, John thought. He smiled to himself as he jogged down the street, hands in pockets, already planning an order for dinner from Singh’s Indian Cuisine. He wondered, fleetingly, if Mycroft was right—he could see a world in which Sherlock was gay and so repressed he would never admit to himself that his entire sexual avoidance was rooted in fear of his own orientation. But—that was the thing. John wasn’t sure he cared. Whatever Sherlock was, what he was most was celibate, or, occasionally, rather dubiously straight. (And he was not at all sure how to reckon in Irene and Molly and Janine and even Mary…except as four radically different examples of Sherlock’s inability to get a firm grip on heterosexual adventure.) If John could feel theoretical compassion for a gay but eternally repressed Sherlock, it was largely outweighed by his fondness for a celibate and eternally cuckoo-genius Sherlock. After all, in the end it was all good, wasn’t it? Just so long as Sherlock was happy.

Which was why, when he rounded the last corner before the alley, he stumbled, gasped, quickly looked away from the black sedan to the left—and insisted he’d accidentally left his wallet at the Three Feathers. Sherlock could find out some other time that Lestrade was not all that reliably straight, nor Mycroft all that much of an unrequited stalker.

Not today.

Not on John Watson’s watch.

After all, it was one thing sedating Sherlock’s pain with two IPAs and a couple hours at the Three Feathers. If he’d seen the two men leaning against the nearby building mooning at each other, obviously in love if not _in flagrante_ , it would have taken mouth-to-mouth to revive him….

And for all it was “all good,” John really did prefer limiting that to Mary. It just made life so much easier….

**Author's Note:**

> One of the things I find hardest to forgive or come to terms with in Sherlock is his repeated indications of aggressive distaste for Mycroft's sexual orientation. I can't think of a single reference Sherlock makes to Mycroft's activities or his lack of association with women or even his loneliness that is not edged with ground glass and vinegar salts. And at this point we have an actual body of allusions, if no completely clear statements. We have "gone to see the Queen" at Buckingham Palace, with Sherlock in his sheet. We've got the less certain playing of "God Save the Queen" when Mycroft says he has to explain things to an "old friend," and Sherlock sees him out with the mocking melody: that could be a reference to Mycroft going to see the Queen himself. Or, just as likely, it's a rather nasty, "God save your poofy Queenship when you have to explain to your mentors how you screwed up." There's the comment about Sherlock hoping (with great distaste) that he's not interrupted Mycroft in a personal moment during the phone conversation in Sign of Three. There's the off-hand nastiness of suggesting Mycroft never sees or works with women in the "analyze the hat" scene in "Hearse."
> 
> While Sherlock may be willing to be mistaken for gay, when he knows he and John are not having relations, he's uniquely and consistently unkind to Mycroft about being gay. He's oblique--we're left with plenty of wiggle room for people who want to argue that he's not that mean, or that it's some sign of his own sexual conflict...
> 
> But, really, to me the preponderance of the evidence now strongly suggests he is NOT comfortable with the idea that his big brother is both gay and possibly/probably active... and that he regards Mycroft's orientation as fair game in their ongoing struggles. If Mycroft seems unable to let go of sardonic irony, distancing himself from his own feelings about his baby brother's problems and complications, Sherlock can't seem to stop goading Mycroft about being gay. 
> 
> I am comfortable enough given canon to play that in two different ways. The first is just that Sherlock is straight, was honestly distressed at however he learned about Mycroft's orientation--distressed to the point of some emotional trauma--and that he doesn't know how to accept it any more than he seems able to accept Mycroft as human, not almost mythically Powerful and Good and Evil all at once.
> 
> I can also accept it as a flag that he's actually gay or bi--but not cis--and that he's not accepted that about himself, so projects all his anger and insecurity onto Mycroft. Within that, though, I would still say canon would not easily support true, full-on gay so much as bi with strong ace leanings.
> 
> Which brings me to the other point involved. Both ACD and BBC Sherlock have a stated reason they do not get involved in sex/desire/love. They are avoiding mental contamination and handicap. Whether one believes this or not, it's hard-line, no-escape canon: this is what both Sherlocks claim, and both claim it strongly. Even if it's just cover for an underlying repression, it's the overt motive that drives their chosen life-style. Within that thought system, BBC Mycroft's a terrifying challenge to Sherlock's beliefs. He remains the brighter brother, the more successful brother, is suggested to be sexually active, and yet remains emotionally free.
> 
> It's the sort of thing that seems tailor made for Sherlock to brood about a bit, weighing sex, friendships, love affairs, dispassion, objectivity, lack of chemical hysteria...loneliness and comfort. That very problem of Mycroft not easily fitting Sherlock's pet system may itself explain a lot.
> 
> Anyway. That's what goes into the above story. I hope it makes a bit of sense in that light.


End file.
